everything in me tells me she’s a girl.

she has brown hair, this daughter of mine. brown hair and her father’s eyes and she skips stones like amelie and helps blind men see.

i felt her swim across the front of me last night as i lay in bed early for the day had been so cold i’d frozen solid, cocooned beneath duvet and hoping the world wouldn’t mind if i slept early but instead i just lay there as my baby wakened.

it’s the quiet of love that moves like a finger inside the universe and it feels much like a fish only you know it has a heart and a brain and fingernails and it hiccups beneath the cover of your skin, and it’s the greatest love affair, this between mother and child

and you can feel the hurt and you want to keep it safe, keep it under cover but your body can only expand so round and then the love explodes so somehow, you try to make your house a womb for your children to grow cushioned until old enough to bear

the cold that sometimes freezes you to your bed at night

“i’m glad you weren’t alone” trent says when he comes home and finds me curled around the unborn

a mother is never truly alone, for the umbilical cord that stretches long around the curve of the earth.

(linking with one shot poetry today)